The Vacant Flat
by PartialAnomaly
Summary: John H. Watson's life has been dreadfully boring and depressing since the departure of his flat mate, the one and only Sherlock Holmes. The only thing that could possibly brighten the shadow hanging over him is if Sherlock weren't dead. Rated T for swearing
1. Chapter 1

**NOTE: I'm scared as heck. I kept putting off submitting anything because my lack of self-confidence has been getting in the way. Not sure if I should butcher this story and call it quits or not. It currently has 3,237 words, but I'm submitting chapters at a time to see how people react to it. I know there are already a ton of stories of how Sherlock returns, but I needed to get my idea down to help settle my thoughts; while basing it slightly more on the original story in which Sherlock returns(titled "The Empty House"). Teehee! ^u^; Tell me if you want to see more of this pitiful attempt!**

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They had all been asking questions. The public, the reporters-Why wouldn't they? Sure, they laid off a lot as the years past, but they still pestered me when they couldn't find a good enough story to keep them entertained. Why wouldn't they want to know if Sherlock Holmes was indeed a murderer or not; why he snapped if he was one; if he was alive and I if helped him escape so he could live somewhere un-condemned- I chose to ignore them. Exactly what he would have done.

I suppose he rubbed off on me more than I'd care to admit. Since his death, I had moved away from 221B Baker Street. I wanted to put as much space in between me and my memories of that place, and the high-functioning sociopath I had as a flat mate. Sure, I'd pop by once in awhile to say hello to Mrs. Hudson, but the most I did otherwise was look nostalgically up the stairs to the flat up above. Mrs. Hudson didn't dare to lay even a finger on anything in that flat, I presumed. The dust on the stairs was something that could choke vacuum cleaners. It's been hard not to trudge right up those stairs, slam open the door, and hope he'd be standing there, his tall figure silhouetted against the window panes, staring out into the street while he rosined his bow. But, the thing is, I saw him die. With my own eyes. I know he's gone, but part of me refuses to believe it, clinging to the false hope he'd come back from the dead.

Lestrade still occasionally emailed or texted me, asking for my assistance with crimes. He knew it helped take my mind off of things, just like it used to for Sherlock. I was more than happy to oblige, but sometimes I turned around in my chair to tell Sherlock we had a case—but he wouldn't be there to smirk and say his infamous catchphrase, "The game is on!"

It was a late afternoon when Lestrade and I started exchanging emails and texts about a particularly interesting murder. A politician, whom had just about as much good of luck in politics as in love; was found murdered in his home. Apparently, he had quite the gambling problem as well—meaning he probably had a nice long list of enemies, consisting of everyone from people with different political views to ex-lovers who wanted revenge. It was pretty easy to cross certain names off the list, what with the politician being killed by an excellent crack shot. Ex-lovers; most definitely a negative, unless he was into people with high caliber weapons and great aim. I was stuck, I couldn't figure out who had a good enough motive for this murder that didn't have a good enough alibi.

I woke up with printed out emails and case papers still in hand, sunlight streaming through the window. "I always forget to put the blinds down," I muttered to myself as I covered my eyes with one arm and rose to close them. My phone buzzed. I tapped the screen to read the text I had received.

We got another weirdo playing Sherlock again. He keeps insisting he's the real deal, the poor bugger. Why don't we meet up at Angelo's to discuss the case? -GL

I took a deep breath and sighed as I shook my head. "People can only wish they were as good as he was." I quickly threw on my trusty-old black jacket and took a cab to Angelo's.


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTE: I received some lovely feedback on the first snippet of this tale, so here's another tidbit to chew! I'm sorry if the chapters seem so short, I'm just cutting it off at where it seems appropriate. Enjoy!**

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A bell rang as I opened the door to Angelo's, to which I used to frequent with the late detective. Lestrade was waiting for me at one of the small wooden tables that were always covered with a red-and-white checkered table cloth, in his typical position with hands crammed into pockets and a tired look on his face. I think he was nodding off when I approached to say hello, forcing him to snap to attention and out of his semi-state of sleep.

"'ello, Watson! Long time no murder!" He laughed jokingly as he patted me on the back and gestured for me to sit down. "Ahem. Anyways, what'd you think?"

I was too busy staring at a particular table in the far corner, lost in thought, to hear him. I was remembering how Angelo raved about how fantastic Sherlock was whenever we came here, how he insisted we ate for free and that he cooked everything himself—but mostly, the constant mistaking us as a couple and placing a candle on our table for *unnecessary* romantic lighting.

"…Earth to Dr. Watson," Lestrade waved his hand in front of my face, taking his turn to startle me out of a stupor.

"…ah! I'm sorry, I was…thinking. What was it you were saying?" I blinked a few times, cleared my throat, and tried to focus on the head detective in front of me.

"I said, what'd you think? About the case, that is," he took a sip of water while he waited for me to answer.

"The case…? Oh, right! It's uhm…interesting. I mean, it seems more and more complicated than a regular ol' murder the more clues we find."

"Mm, yes, you're quite right. But we've seen so many odd cases that the term "regular ol' murder" has become rather infrequent and mundane when used. At times like these, I wish that Sherlock phony was the real deal. We could really use that crazy bloke's helping hand in this right now." Lestrade's tone was wistful; everyone knew he missed Sherlock too—but not as nearly as much as I. I took it harder than anyone.

"I wish…it's our anniversary, today, you know," I sighed matter-of-factly, phasing into my own mind palace.

Lestrade choked and coughed on the water he was drinking, turning into a spluttering mess. "Your WHAT?"

"Oh for God's sake, Lestrade, not you too! I meant the anniversary of the day Sherlock and I MET. Sometimes I swear all of you wish we were a couple, what with how many times people mistook us as one and all," I laughed a little.

Lestrade laughed nervously and glanced to the side. "Ahaha, yeah…So, how do you suppose we do this?"

"Think like Sherlock," I stated.

"But that's impossible for someone stupid like me," Lestrade mimicked sarcastically. "You're the closest we've got."

"True." And we both knew it was.

We thanked Angelo for his service (I tipped him generously, despite his protests) and walked back outside onto the sidewalk. It had begun a slight drizzle, clouds lightly hazing the sky. We hailed a cab and rode back to the police station. When we were nearly there (roughly a block away or so), I saw what I assumed was the Sherlock poser, with a throng of observe-ees gathered around him. Lestrade and I exchanged glances and rolled eyes simultaneously, asking the cabbie to pull over here.

Lestrade waited by the cab while I pushed my way through the mob to see what this loony was going on about. "Excuse me, excuse me, coming through," I spoke with my voice slightly raised so they could hear me. My thoughts wandered. "Sherlock would get a riot out of this if he were still-" Halfway through, I accidentally knocked a newspaper out of an older gentleman's hands, sending it splashing into a puddle that had begun to form in the pavement from the light rain. I heard a grunt of annoyance issue from the man's mouth.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry!" I apologized and leaned down to pick the paper up. The title read "The Return of Sherlock Holmes-Phony or the Real McCoy?" in big, black lettering. I stood up slowly while scanning the page, and looked up to where the elderly man had been standing. "You don't honestly believe this bunch of-" but the man was gone. I never even saw a glimpse of his face.


	3. Chapter 3

By this time, the crowd had dispersed and the faux-Sherlock was given a rather entertaining talk by Lestrade, who promptly made him promise he would stop this nonsense and get a life. With that, I told Lestrade I was going to go visit Sherlock's grave to commemorate our "anniversary." Those words got a few odd stares from some random passerby, but honestly I didn't care anymore.

Fitting that it was raining when I arrived. The black headstone was sleek and even more shiny when covered in the tears of the sky. I liked to think the whole world itself cried for his death. I talked on and on about how life had been, how I was stuck on this one case that I wished he was there to solve- before noticing a small letter placed neatly in front of the stone. It was barely wet, meaning it had been placed there only right before I had arrived- as if someone knew I was coming—someone who knew my regular schedule of visiting Sherlock's grave. I looked side to side, scanning the trees and shadows for any sign of movement, before leaning down to pick something up for the second time today. "I'm sensing a theme here…" was what I was thinking when I carefully opened the letter to read it.

"Dear John,

I wish to thank you properly for picking up the paper I dropped, and to apologize for rushing off like that. You see, I've been watching you for some time now. I'm quite the admirer, you could say, so when faced with the chance of meeting you in person, I fled. I know you're probably suspicious of me right now, but I can sort that out. How about we meet up in front of 221B Baker Street? It's a commonly photographed place nowadays, is it not? You won't have to worry about a thing, and I can have my paper returned and give you a proper thank you.

-That Strange Old Man

P.S- Don't fret, I don't believe any of that "baloney."

I was rather stunned for a moment before stuffing the letter all-too-excitedly into my jacket pocket. "This is interesting." I briskly walked to Baker Street, one of my hands fiddling with the crumpled up letter in one of my pockets.

When I arrived in front of my old residence, I saw no sign of the man. "Maybe he's just late," I pondered out loud. I waited for a few minutes to see if he came, my eyes slowly raking over my familiar surroundings. Everything looked eerily the same as the day I had left. I checked my watch, and held out for a few more minutes. No such luck. I had started to think of leaving and heading back home, when Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "John! John, come quick! You must see this! Really, come in!" She was the happiest I had seen her in three long, dreadful years, practically jumping up and down with excitement, her old eyes sparkling with glee. She grabbed my arm and dragged me inside before I had a chance to reply. The first thing I noticed was that the stairs leading up to my old flat were sparkling clean. "What th-" I peeked cautiously up the stairs. One of Moriarty's goons?

"Mrs. Hudson, did you see anything, anyone suspicious—"

"Well, no, I went out to the grocery store to buy some of your favorite jam for the next time you stopped by," she explained. "But if they were a bad guy, why would they bother to clean the stairs, then? They did an old lady's hip quite the favor." It was then I heard a note. A long, beautiful note that drifted down the stairs and surrounded me like smoke, wrapping me up so I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Life just froze, drawing out the sound. The sound stopped. Silence fell, an inviting silence, not ominous in the slightest. With a curt nod of approval from Mrs. Hudson, I proceeded to sprint up the stairs as fast I had run in my entire life. I stopped to catch my breath, and opened the flat door. And there he was.

That Strange Old Man.

His back was to me, straightened up so I could observe his natural height—he had been slouching when I bumped into him. Standing there, his tall figure silhouetted against the window panes, staring out into the street while he rosined his bow, his trusty violin gripped between the crook of his arm and his side in proper position. His dark curly hair was unkempt like he had just rolled out of bed(not that he ever slept).His long black coat was only a few mere centimeters from kissing the ground, the side collars turned up for the mysterious effect he loved. The paper I had intended on returning fell with a slight plop to the floor. Gaping, open-mouthed at what I was seeing, That Strange Old Man turned around on his heel.

"I see you've developed quite the habit of dropping things over these past few years." An unmistakable smirk crossed the man's impossible face, paired with an unmistakable, baritone chuckle that emanated from his chest. "Hello, John. You look…3 years older than when I saw you last." He took a few steps towards me. He had never looked so alive. I tried to think of some typical smart-ass, John-Watson-esque reply that he had come to expect from me.

That's when I fainted. Yep, fainted. Plain old passed out. Like a little girl. John H. Watson, the army doctor, who was in a war and got shot at—saw things a man should never see-never fainted once—fainted when Sherlock Holmes returned.


End file.
